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  Seneca met Mitchell’s eyes. “Do you miss modeling?”

  Mitchell’s lips parted in a sensual smile. “No. Rather than posing with beautiful women I get the bonus of peering at them from behind a camera lens.” Without warning, he sobered. “You’re going to become a sensation, Seneca,” he predicted sagely. “Working with Booth isn’t going to be easy, because the man has an ego as big as Mount Rushmore. But on the other hand, he will make you a supermodel. Just make certain you don’t sign away your soul.”

  Mitchell’s warning stayed with Seneca as she sat with Booth on her left and Phillip on her right with ten other couples. Booth sat at the head of the table opposite his latest barely legal girlfriend, presiding over the assembly like a Roman emperor at a banquet. With a mere wave of his hand or a nod he silently ordered the waitstaff when to bring or clear away each course.

  She ate slowly, sparingly, as she sipped her drink. No one seemed to notice that she’d left more food on the plate than she’d consumed. Unlike many women who had a career in modeling, Seneca had never resorted to bingeing, then regurgitating her food. Rice, pasta, potatoes and bread topped her restricted-foods list. She’d made allowances for protein intake: chicken, fish, beans, peas and no more than four ounces of red meat each week. Booth’s personal chef had prepared a rack of lamb with an herb crust, but Seneca found it too undercooked.

  “Is there something wrong with the lamb?”

  Seneca nodded. Booth had read her mind. “It’s a little rare for my tastes.”

  Raising his hand, he beckoned a waiter. “Please bring Ms. Houston a well-done portion of lamb. Take her plate, fool,” he rasped, noticeably annoyed with the man’s incompetence.

  She opened her mouth to chide Booth for his rudeness but just as quickly changed her mind. Her objection was not to what he said but how he’d said it. His tone was a constant reminder of how her mother had ordered her children about as if they were her slaves. It would never be “please,” or “would you,” but “do this or that, and be quick about it.” And if she’d dawdled too long, then Seneca would find an object sailing within inches of her head. She didn’t know how she did it, but Dahlia Houston’s aim was near-perfect. She never hit any of her children, although she’d come very close too many times to count.

  “Why don’t you take my plate,” Phillip suggested, picking up his plate and setting it down in front of Seneca, “and I’ll take yours.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked him, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Phillip beckoned the waiter. “I’ll take that.” Picking up the knife at his place setting, he cut into the fork-tender meat and popped it into his mouth. “It’s good.”

  Seneca found herself watching him chew until he swallowed. He had the sexiest mouth of any man she’d ever seen. She’d never been one to gawk or go weak-kneed over a good-looking man; however, she was willing to make an exception with Phillip Kingston. He was tall, at least six-six, his body beautifully proportioned. Even his hands were perfect.

  She picked up her knife. “I don’t eat much red meat, and when I do I like it well-done.”

  Phillip leaned to his left, his shoulder brushing against Seneca’s bare one. “Do you eat?” he teased. “You hardly touched your soup and salad.”

  “You noticed?”

  He smiled, attractive slashes creasing his lean jaw. “You’re impossible to ignore.”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  He pressed closer. “What do you think?”

  “You are, Mr. Kingston.”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Damn, baby, don’t call me that.”

  “Aren’t you basketball’s phenom King Phillip?”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “I only know what I’ve read,” Seneca countered, smiling.

  “I think it’s time to set the record straight. After this is over, why don’t we go somewhere and talk?”

  She tried to ignore the feeling of uneasiness shaking her. How many times had she heard the same suggestion from countless men? To them going somewhere to talk meant trying to get her into bed—something she refused to do no matter how much they pleaded or begged. If she was going to sleep with a man, then it would be at her discretion, not his.

  “I’ll give it some thought, Phillip.” His name came out in a sultry drawl.

  “Now, that’s better. But don’t think too long, gorgeous, because I intend to blow this party before coffee and dessert.”

  Seneca rested a hand atop Phillip’s much larger one, recalling Booth’s statement that Phillip was very particular about the women with whom he consorted, which led her to believe he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish his good-guy image. “Let me leave first, then follow twenty minutes later,” she said sotto voce. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  If he was surprised by her suggestion, nothing in his expression indicated it. There was little doubt that Phillip Kingston was used to women coming on to him. But Seneca wasn’t coming on to or flirting with him.

  Was she attracted to him? Yes.

  Did she want to know more about him? Yes.

  Would she sleep with him? No.

  Seneca had had one serious relationship, and unfortunately it ended badly. It was also unpleasant enough to make her very wary of the opposite sex.

  Chapter Three

  Seneca wrote her address and telephone numbers on a cocktail napkin before passing it to Booth. “Call me and let me know when you want to meet.” She pushed back her chair, Booth and Phillip rising together.

  Booth placed a hand at the small of her back. “You’re leaving now?”

  “I have another engagement. My driver is waiting for me.” She’d mentioned the driver because she knew it would make her departure a smooth one.

  She curbed the urge to stiffen when his fingers moved to the curve of her waist, then lower to her hip. She didn’t want to believe he was attempting to feel her up, not only with his girlfriend looking on, but a room filled with other people. “Call me, Booth.”

  He dropped his arm. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Seneca wanted to tell the man she could find her way to the door without his assistance, but didn’t want to create a scene. Even if she had been interested in the agent she’d seen firsthand how he’d disrespected the woman who appeared as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment.

  “No. Please stay and entertain your guests.” Not giving him a chance to react, she turned on her heels and walked out the dining room.

  A woman in a pale-gray uniform led the way to the door, opening it while inclining her head. “Good evening, miss.”

  Seneca angled her head, smiling. “Thank you. Good evening to you, too.”

  The elevator arrived seconds after she’d pushed the button. The doors opened. She hesitated when a couple sprang apart, the man turning his back while adjusting the front of his slacks. It was apparent they’d been engaged in some form of sex play. They weren’t old enough for retirement, but Seneca thought them too mature to make out in public.

  “Sorry about that,” said a deep male voice behind her. Soft laughter followed the apology.

  “Whateva,” Seneca drawled, using Electra’s favorite rejoinder. Opening her purse, she removed her cell phone and business card. When the elevator reached the lobby she’d called the driver to tell him to pick her up in front of the building.

  Phillip wasn’t able to depart until half an hour after Seneca had taken her leave. Booth had picked the wrong time to want to talk business. He thanked his agent and host for his hospitality and practically ran out of the apartment to the elevator. During the ride to the building’s lobby he couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful woman who’d enthralled him. Since joining the NBA Phillip had found himself constantly bombarded with female attention, and not having Seneca batting her lashes or draping her body over his was not only welcome, but refreshing. He always preferred doing the chasing, not the other way around.

  Nodding to the d
oorman on duty, he walked out into the warm night, glancing to his right, then his left. Yellow taxis swerved in and out of bumper-to-bumper traffic while horns from frustrated motorists blared loudly, adding to the cacophony of sounds in the city that never slept. He felt a sinking feeling the pit of his stomach when he realized Seneca hadn’t waited as she’d promised.

  Turning, he beckoned the doorman. “Please hail me a cab.”

  “Mr. Kingston, Miss Houston is waiting in the car for you,” said someone behind him.

  Phillip smiled. “I guess I won’t need that taxi,” he told the doorman. Following the driver, he walked several feet to a black Lincoln town car. The driver opened the rear door and he ducked his head to slide onto the leather seat beside Seneca.

  The light from the small lamp positioned behind the rear seat cast a warm glow over Seneca’s face. “What took you so long?” she asked, smiling.

  “Booth wanted to talk,” Phillip said, stretching out his legs until he found a comfortable position.

  “Didn’t you tell him you had to meet someone?”

  Phillip gave Seneca a lengthy stare. “When Booth Gordon wants to talk you usually acquiesce.”

  “Are you saying that when Booth Gordon speaks, everyone listens?”

  “Only those who count on him for their next paycheck,” he confirmed.

  Seneca digested this information. First Mitchell and now Phillip had made veiled warnings about the agent. She wondered, for the first time, whether she was getting into some thing she wouldn’t be able to control. If you give me absolute control of your career I will make you a bigger supermodel than any that has come before you.

  She didn’t know why his prediction was branded on her brain like a permanent tattoo. Seneca wanted to up the ante on her career, but would it be at the cost of losing her independence? Independence and control were paramount to her. All her life she’d had to submit to the will of a controlling and domineering mother—a woman who never told her children that she loved them, a woman who barked orders and commands like a drill sergeant and a woman who complained every day of her life.

  “Where do you want to go to talk, Phillip?”

  “What about your place?”

  Seneca shook her head. “It can’t be my place.” There was no way she was going to invite a man to her home within hours of meeting him for the first time—even if that man was Phillip Kingston.

  “Then we’ll go to my place.”

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Battery Park. We can hang out in the lobby or the club lounge.”

  Seneca was certain he could hear her sigh of relief. One thing she didn’t want to do was spend her time with him fighting off his physical advances. “That sounds good to me.”

  Leaning forward on his seat, Phillip gave the driver the name and location of his hotel, then settled back to enjoy the passing landscape and the hypnotic fragrance of Seneca’s perfume. He made certain to keep a comfortable distance between them when he’d wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her. Reaching over, he grasped her hand, holding it protectively. She turned to look at him, smiling. He returned her smile and then stared out the side window as the driver maneuvered smoothly into southbound traffic.

  Phillip surreptitiously slipped the driver several large bills when he exited the car, asking that he wait around indefinitely. The man palmed the money, nodding. “Just have Miss Houston call me when she’s ready.”

  Phillip extended his hand, assisting Seneca out of the car, his gaze lingering on her long, bare legs. His breath caught in his lungs when he fantasized about having her legs around his waist—or better yet, around his neck. He didn’t know what it was about the model, but just looking at her sent his libido into overdrive. She was approachable, yet a part of her remained aloof. And there was a sophistication about her not usually common in someone as young as she.

  He was twenty-six, and there were times Phillip felt years older. He’d been a first-round draft pick even before graduating from college, and with Booth Gordon as his agent he’d been catapulted into the glare of cameras and spotlights as the ink was drying on his six-figure contract. If it hadn’t been for his strict upbringing, he knew he would’ve succumbed to the temptations faced by a young man becoming a multimillionaire at the tender age of twenty-one.

  Phillip thanked the doorman as he opened the door when he led Seneca into the hotel with views of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty. He’d grown used to the stares and whispers when hotel personnel and guests recognized him. The lack of privacy came with the territory. It was only when he closed the door to his suite that he was afforded complete privacy.

  He stopped at the concierge, checking whether he had mail or packages. There were none. “Would you like to freshen up in my suite first?” he asked Seneca.

  Seneca noticed people had stopped to stare at her and Phillip. She knew they’d recognized him from television commercials and print ads. Several flashbulbs went off at the same time, and she pressed her face to his shoulder.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk in the lobby,” she said.

  Putting his arm around Seneca’s waist, Phillip pulled her closer to his length. “If you want we can talk in the club lounge.” Reaching in the breast pocket of his jacket with his free hand, he removed the card key.

  “I wouldn’t mind hanging out in your suite.” Seneca had changed her mind. Having people take pictures of her with Phillip had become unnerving. She’d just met the man, and didn’t want her photo splashed across the pages of a supermarket tabloid.

  “You have to learn to ignore the gawking and picture taking,” Phillip said as he escorted her into the elevator. He punched the button for the twelfth floor.

  She glanced up at his distinctive profile. “How long did it take you to get used to it?”

  “Scouts were taking pictures of me in high school. It escalated in college, and by the time I was drafted into the NBA it was something I’d learned to deal with.”

  “Do you give autographs?”

  He smiled. “Most times I do—especially if they’re kids. You can’t rely on the public for your fame and fortune, then snub them when they ask you to scrawl your name on a piece of paper.”

  “Will you give me your autograph?” Seneca asked, giving him a sensual smile.

  Phillip winked at her. “How many do you want?”

  She returned his wink. “I’ll let you know.”

  He moved closer, their chests rising and falling in unison. “Why can’t you give me a straight answer without having to think about it first?”

  Seneca was saved from answering his query when the elevators doors opened. She followed Phillip down the carpeted hallway to his suite. Inserting the card key in the slot, he waited for the green light and pushed open the door. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  She entered the suite as if pulled by an invisible wire, her mouth gaping in awe. Phillip hadn’t drawn the drapes, and the lights of the city, New York Harbor, Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island were clearly visible. She noticed the telescope directed at the windows.

  “These views are spectacular!” Seneca gasped.

  Phillip slipped out of his jacket, leaving it on a chair in the Art Deco–decorated living room. “That’s the reason why I live here.”

  Turning away from the window, Seneca gave him an incredulous look. “You live here?”

  “Yes. Why do you look so shocked?”

  “I thought you would’ve bought a house either in the suburbs or across the river in New Jersey.”

  Emptying his pockets of his cell phone, loose change, credit-card case and money clip, he left them on the coffee table. Picking up a remote, Phillip turned on the Bang & Olufsen audio system, soft jazz filling the room. “I would if I’d had a family. I’m single, so living in a hotel is the next-best thing. I have every convenience that I’d want or need. There’s a twenty-four hour fitness center with person
al trainers, restaurants on the premises, in-room dining and concierge 24/7, twice-a-day maid service, laundry and dry cleaning, and around-the-clock security.”

  If he’d bought a house, then there’d be the nuisance of a mortgage or paying taxes. He would always have to hire people to maintain the interior and exterior of the property and concern himself with around-the-clock security. Once the basketball season began he was constantly on the road, and during the home games he usually spent most of his time relaxing in his hotel suite. He slept with women, but not so many that he couldn’t remember their names or their faces. Those who took it upon themselves to come unannounced were always escorted off the premises by hotel security. To Phillip Park Kingston, his privacy took precedence over everything else in his life.

  Seneca angled her head. “I suppose it makes sense when you think of the upkeep of a house. How large is this suite?”

  “It’s about twenty-one hundred square feet. There’s a connecting one that’s a little less than five hundred.” Phillip extended his hand. “Come. Let me give you a tour.”

  Slipping out of her shoes, Seneca placed her small purse on the table, then took the proffered hand. Without her heels, the top of her head reached his shoulder. Her bare feet sank into the deep pile of the carpet as she followed Phillip out of the living room, through the separate area with a dining table, pantry with a microwave, sink and refrigerator, and into the bedroom with a king-size bed. Someone had turned down the sheet and blankets. As in the living area, the drapes were pulled back to take advantage of panoramic views of the city.

  She managed to stifle a gasp when she walked into the marble bathroom with a deep soaking Jacuzzi tub and windows overlooking the harbor. She thought of the functional claw-foot bathtub in her apartment where she had yet to take a bath. Since moving in, she’d always taken a shower.

  Her shock was magnified when Phillip opened the door to a connecting suite that was a little smaller than the apartment she shared with Electra. It contained a king bed, marble bath with the deep, full-size bathtub and separate shower. The living room had a large, flat-screen television, Bose stereo equipment, a work desk and a fully stocked mini refreshment bar.